Second Flush
by Copgirl
Summary: After a funeral Mycroft Holmes contemplates his single life, and considers knowledge he had gained when Gregory Lestrade had drunk-dialled him some weeks earlier. This is the story generous Scribblingnellie has bought at the birthday auction for Rupert Graves' birthday. My thanks go once again to Jack63kids for beta-ing my work.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes stood at the window. His hands were curled around the hot teacup as he stared outside. Rain was running down the windowpane. Stepping away from the window he moved closer to the fire that was crackling merrily in the fire-place. Momentarily he shivered before his body began to soak up the heat the fire radiated.

Soft steps approached him.

"I'm leaving. The cab should be here in five minutes."

Mycroft nodded and turned to look at Sherlock. His younger sibling's hair was still slightly wet from the hot shower Sherlock had taken, while Mycroft had turned to tea and the open fire to warm himself. A hot bath would follow later once he was alone.

Earlier on, in a rare display of brotherly unity Sherlock had accompanied Mycroft to a funeral. Simon McMillan, one of the few people Mycroft had ever felt a connection with during his time at university had been put to his final rest. It had been blessedly dry during the speech. When the coffin had been lowered into the ground the wind, much too cool for the month of July, had picked up and intensified the cold Mycroft had become acutely aware of during the ceremony. McMillan's widow and his daughter had still accepted the condolences with undisguised grief, and then the rain had started.  
One minute a few drops were falling, as if to warn people to seek cover, the next water was pouring down. Sherlock had been utterly stunned when Mycroft had handed his umbrella to the widow and her daughter before he had huddled fruitlessly into his coat and hurried towards the waiting car. Both Holmeses had been soaking wet when they had reached the vehicle.

"If I didn't know better I would say you cared, brother," Sherlock had said before he had shaken his hair, wilfully annoying Mycroft with the droplets of water that flew from his locks.

On the face of it, it had been the promise of an endless supply of hot water that had lured Sherlock to stay for another hour at his sibling's place but Mycroft knew that it was the absence of John Watson that really kept him there. Naturally Sherlock never said anything but Mycroft was very aware how keenly his brother missed the blond doctor.

The brothers were strangers to display of emotions but before Sherlock went for the door to let himself out, Mycroft stopped him. "Thank you for accompanying me today. That was kind of you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "No regrets," he said, quoting Simon McMillan's personal motto. McMillan, who had once lost his first wife and two sons to a car accident had been a rare breed who had not been completely broken by the tragic loss but had managed not only to find new love but embrace it to the fullest before a tumour to the brain had swept him away.

Mycroft returned his brother's gaze, ready to reply, but the familiar words, "caring is not an advantage" wouldn't come. Instead he asked, "do you think it's true that drunk people speak the truth, Sherlock?"

Only the faintest twitch of the corners of Sherlock's mouth revealed that he knew what Mycroft was talking about. He considered the question for a moment.

"Yes," he said eventually and took a step towards the door. "Perhaps it's time for you act upon that knowledge," he added before walking outside into the rain and to the waiting cab.

Running himself a bath Mycroft brushed his teeth while he was waiting for the tub to fill. His mind went back to a night almost six weeks ago. It had been close to midnight when the ringing of his mobile had woken him up. Seeing on the display that it was DI Gregory Lestrade who called, Mycroft had expected the worse; but instead of hearing that his brother had been injured or worse the policeman had declared that he was in love with Mycroft.

"It's my birthday and I'm all by myself," he had babbled. "I wish you were here 'cause I think you're wonderful and I'm in love with you."

The slurred speech had made it perfectly clear that the DI was spectacularly drunk wherefore Mycroft had told him that it was perhaps a good idea to go to bed instead of drunk dialling friends. Had he really used the word friends? Mycroft had wished the man a happy birthday, ended the call and spent the reminder of the night staring into the dark while wondering if any of Gregory Lestrade's word had been true.

Climbing into the tub, Mycroft lowered himself slowly into the hot water. Submerging himself all the way to his chin, he closed his eyes to think.

Apparently the DI hadn't remember a thing of what he had said that night. When he had called two days later not only had he apologised profusely for disturbing him in the middle of the night but he had also asked if he had insulted him in any way.

Mycroft had answered truthfully that he hadn't been insulted and the Inspector shouldn't worry about the late call. A bit of drunk talk was better than learning about an overdosed sibling. After another apology, a heartfelt sigh and the promise to make it up to Mycroft by inviting him for a cuppa, Lestrade had hung up.

Handsome Gregory Lestrade in love with Mycroft Holmes. The thought alone was mind-boggling and considering Mycroft's rather impressive mind, there was a lot to boggle.

Instead of playing it safe after the loss of his family, late Simon McMillan had embraced life. He had taken risks and had dared to love again. It was Simon's death that had shoved the fact in Mycroft's face that he had always shied away from feelings. Well not always. Once he had cared and the outcome had been painful. Even the love he felt for his brother was barely tolerated and certainly not appreciated.

By drunk-dialling and revealing his feelings, the DI had allowed Mycroft who wasn't very adapt when it came to reading emotions, what could be considered a glimpse into the proverbial crystal ball. Should he act on his own infatuation with the silver-haired DI at least he knew his feelings were returned.

Although his brother thought otherwise, Mycroft wasn't lonely but that didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy spending time with Gregory Lestrade. There was still the offer of a cup of tea. Perhaps it was time to call the DI and remind him of it.


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter has its focus on Greg Lestrade, trying to build up the courage to invite Mycroft for a cuppa._

* * *

Often people failed to remember the exact moment when they have fallen in love with another person. Greg Lestrade couldn't pinpoint the exact moment but he certainly remembered the moment he had realized that he was in love with Mycroft Holmes. That day he had been standing in a pub, trying to divert himself. He had known that Sherlock had to leave England because he had killed a man. Only Sherlock's closest friend John Watson, the doctor's wife Mary and, of course, Sherlock's brother Mycroft had accompanied the consulting detective to the airfield from which a plane would sweep him away. The fact that Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead less than a year previously had made it all the more painful but Greg had felt that he would be in the way.  
He had nearly finished his second pint while watching a football match on TV when all of a sudden Jim Moriarty's face had appeared on the screen. Less than a minute later, once the DI had overcome his shock, he had run out of the pub and flagged down the next cab to take him to the airfield.  
He had found Mycroft inside a private jet, picking up some shreds of paper while wearing an expression as if somebody had taken a knife and carefully carved the heart out of his chest.

"Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes had given a little start upon the unexpected presence but shaken his head and replied in a flat voice, "it's nothing, Gregory." Greg knew this meant there was definitely something and most likely Sherlock.

The lost look in Mycroft's stormy blue-grey eyes had made Greg's heart hurt and when their eyes had met again he had quietly accepted that, God help him, he loved Mycroft Holmes.

Now, months after this revelation and weeks since he had drunk dialled him, Greg Lestrade sat in a café called "The Tease", drinking a cup of milky Oolong tea. Rusty, his favourite waitress, had recommended the soothing brew.

Taking another sip Greg leaned back in the comfortable armchair and closed his eyes for a moment. As much as he wanted to he still hadn't found the courage to call Mycroft and invite him for a cup of tea. If he did, he probably would be turned down anyway and he could hardly blame Mycroft. Drunk dialling him had been as juvenile as it had been foolish, and on top of it he had declared his love. The DI groaned and buried his face in his hands. At least as long as he didn't call he could keep pretending he stood a chance with the elegant man.

"You're disturbing the other customers with your brooding."

Greg opened his eyes and found Rusty standing in front of him with one hand on her hip.

"I'm sorry, I didn't..." he began, before even realizing that the waitress was teasing him. He wagged his finger at the grinning woman, who held out a plate.

"I need your professional opinion on these pastries. The baker said they'd go well with either tea or coffee."

Choosing one of the tiny, colourfully decorated pastries, Greg bit into the sweet treat. He nodded approvingly while chewing. "Delicious!" he proclaimed.

"Good," Rusty said. She left the small plate for him with another piece and returned to the counter, her messy red curls bouncing merrily in the rhythm of her gait.

Greg decided that it must be a secret ingredient in the pastries because all of a sudden he felt like he should call Mycroft this very moment. He didn't know those fancy places the man undoubtedly frequented but this café would certainly be good enough to share some tea and, yeah, some pastries.

"The Tease" was cosy without being stuffy. The staff wore nifty pastel green shirts and dark brown trousers or skirts, that went well with the interior of the place that was kept mostly in beige and a deep burgundy red. The tea was fantastic and so were the sweet treats. Yes, it was now or never.

Popping the second pastry into his mouth, he took his mobile from is pocket and was about to scroll through the contacts when the phone rang.

So very startled that he almost dropped the phone in his teacup, he pressed the button to take the call, only then realizing that his mouth was too full to talk properly.

Provided the caller was equipped with both a generous amount of goodwill as well as fantasy, he'd be able to recognize the pastry-muffled sound as "hello!"

Greg chewed as quickly as possible when the caller identified himself as the man he had just been thinking about. Mycroft Holmes.

"Mycroft," he managed at last. "I was just about to call you."

"Is that so? Good morning, Gregory."

"And good morning to you. What can I do for you, Mycroft?"

"No, no, the reason for my call is undoubtedly far less important."

Greg took a deep breath and almost blurted out,"I believe I still owe you a cup of tea for my faux pax the other day and I was wondering if you were actually interested? Perhaps a cup of tea and some cake?"

To the DI's astonishment Mycroft immediately agreed to meet him on Sunday afternoon.

"So, we have a date," Mycroft had said and only when he had ended the call did Greg realise that he had never learned why Mycroft had called him in the first place. But what the hell, he had a date with Mycroft Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

_Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes have prepared for their first date but when the moment comes they're both surprised._

 _"Quick, is there a second exit?"_

* * *

Standing in front of the mirror, looking at the unfamiliar reflection of himself clad in very casual attire, Mycroft Holmes shook his head. Dressed in a Henley shirt, jeans and loafers he could probably walk straight into any Government building, the Diogenes Club or Buckingham Palace without being recognized. Well, perhaps not Buckingham palace. Her Majesty was quite observant.

Initially he had dressed in his usual suit but Greg Lestrade had sounded nervous over the phone and he wanted the handsome policeman to feel at ease today. Mycroft's suits were expensive and looked accordingly imposing, and even though a DI with the MET had a decent salary, bespoke suits from Savile Row were beyond his means. With one last, slightly doubtful look at this casual self, Mycroft took his keys and wallet and left.

"Look at you!" Rusty exclaimed. "Who're you meeting? The Prime Minister herself?" The waitress ogled her customer with apparent appreciation.

"Do you think it's too much?" Greg felt a bit silly asking the friendly waitress for her opinion but he was nervous and in need of some uplifting words. Instead of his usual casual, often quite rumpled attire he had chosen a brown suit with a Prince of Wales check, a white shirt and a fashionable striped silk-tie for this occasion. He had treated himself to a wet shave, complemented by a dab of cologne, and put product in his hair to style his silvery strands.

"You look very dashing.."

Seeing the policeman's eyes suddenly go wide, Rusty turned and upon following his line of sight she saw a man stopping at the café's window façade to study today's specials on the board outside.

The waitress yelped when the DI dragged her behind a partition wall.

"Quick, is there a second exit?"

"Yes, but why? That man outside, is he one of our customers?" She thought it was logical that police officers had their share of enemies.

"No, that's the man I'm here to meet." Greg whispered urgently, for Mycroft had just opened the door and was walking inside, obviously looking for him.

Seeing the distress on the DI's face, she pushed him into the way that led to the staff changing-room.

"You're not getting cold feet, are you?" she glowered at Greg.

"No, but," he shook his head, "usually he's dressed in a three-piece suit. That's why I'm wearing this." He indicated his own suit. "Now he's dressed like this and.." He waved his hand in a helpless gesture.

"You don't like him except in a suit?" Rusty sounded confused.

"Of course not, he's looking perfect. He always looks perfect. But he's going to be embarrassed wearing jeans and that shirt when I'm dressed like this."

The waitress laughed softly and ran her hand though her mess of red hair. "That is so sweet. You dressed for him and obviously he dressed for you. Don't you see? That's perfect."

Having enough of male uncertainty she looked around the corner and when she saw that the new arrival's back was turned and he was actually looking outside, probably looking for his date, she gave the policeman a not too gentle push that put him right in front of the café's counter.

"Thank you, for your advice," she said loud enough for the other man to hear, who turned around immediately.

"Mycroft," Greg's voice was little more than a croak.

Mycroft studied the DI from the styled hair to the polished Oxfords. For a moment he looked horrified when he noticed the fashionable clothes but unlike the DI he didn't need a third person to recognize the gesture they both had made.

"I don't believe I have seen you dressed in this particular suit," Mycroft said. Offering his hand for Greg to shake, he added, "it is very becoming." He looked appraisingly at Gregory's strong set of shoulders which the suit emphasized perfectly.

Slowly overcoming his surprise, Greg took the proffered hand. "And I do like this ensemble," he replied, trying not to stare at the tuft of ginger chest-hair visible at the open neckline of Mycroft's shirt and forgetting that it was customary to let go of the hand once it was shook. Not that Mycroft noticed because he was trying to catch another whiff of the DI's cologne without being too obvious.

"Choose whatever table you like," Rusty chimed in, deciding she better intervened before these two made a spectacle of themselves.

Interrupted in their mutual leering both men let go of the other's hand and walked over to one of the tables to sit down. From the safety of the counter Rusty watched with amazement the pair arranging their legs underneath the smallest table the almost empty café had to offer. Neither men wanted to admit that this particular table was a poor choice but when the only option was tangling their legs together, something they weren't yet comfortable with, first Mycroft and a moment later Greg began to smile. Their smiles turned into broad grins and then they were laughing heartily at their own foolishness.

The laughter broke the ice and once they had moved to a bigger table where they weren't quite as much in each others laps, they ordered tea and pastries. The tea was served in beautiful cups made of bone china and the pastries were lovingly presented on matching plates. Their conversation began to run more smoothly while they consumed the delicacies and sipped their tea but with their mutual attraction an underlying tension had set in which neither man could quite shake off.

Mycroft really liked Gregory's choice of clothes, but he was somewhat relieved when the policeman first took off his jacket and minutes later removed the tie, which he folded carefully to store in the jacket's pocket. Due to the warm temperatures Greg rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and Mycroft couldn't help marvelling at the skin that was revealed to his eyes; toned muscles underneath lovely tanned skin.

Talking animatedly about the current political situation in Britain, Greg found himself equally attracted to the unfamiliar sight of Mycroft's long, pale forearms, decorated with freckles and fair hair. Therefore, without considering the consequences, he placed his hand on top of Mycroft's at one point, startling him enough that Mycroft knocked over a glass of water. Jerking back his hand like he had burned himself, Greg subsequently sent his own teacup flying, joining the glass on the floor with an embarrassingly loud crash.  
Greg flushed a bright shade of red. He jumped up, apologizing profusely while fumbling for some napkins.

"Gregory." Mycroft tried to calm the clearly aggravated man but when he touched the DI's shoulder Greg looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Calm down, please." He took hold of Gregory's shoulders before he could kneel down and, considering his state of mind, cut himself.

"Gregory," he repeated and gently touched the DI's strong jaw. "It's fine, it really is. I didn't mind your touch. In fact," he lowered his gaze for a moment before looking directly into the huge brown eyes of his counterpart, "I hoped for it. I was merely startled."

Stealing another sideways glance, Mycroft made room for the waitress who came bustling over to sweep both liquid and shards into a small bucket with practised ease.

"Why don't we go for a walk, Gregory?" Mycroft suggested.

Greg let go of the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "A walk. Yes, that sounds like a good idea."

Apologizing once more to Rusty for the mess, Greg took his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and opened the door for Mycroft. In silent agreement they turned towards the path that ran along the Thames. For some time they walked quietly along the river and Mycroft could feel the tension drain from Gregory's body. Turning his face towards him, Mycroft smiled.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Greg returned the smile, "but I understand if you decide that I'm too much of a mess and not worth the trouble."

Mycroft sighed softly. "I like you exactly the way you are. For me you are perfect."

He carefully brushed his hand against Gregory's and to his delight the DI's strong fingers immediately curled around his own instead of shying away. And glancing sideways Mycroft found his own smile mirrored on Gregory's face.

They kept walking but no sooner than they reached an underpass of a bridge, Mycroft stopped. He made certain there were no other people nearby, before he turned to face the man at his side, trying to translate his expression. Slight confusion but also trust and undeniable attraction.

Instead of displaying his usual inexpressive mask, Mycroft allowed Greg to see his own vulnerability and longing.

"Oh," Greg said softly when he looked, really looked at Mycroft's face and understood. Mycroft was dressed so casually his own mother would have trouble recognizing her eldest son and Greg had never felt more attracted to him.

They were close, so very close that Mycroft felt Gregory's breath ghosting over the skin of his face.

"I would like to kiss you," Mycroft said quietly.

"I think I'd like that very much," Greg murmured and stepped closer.

Pressing against the DI's solid body, Mycroft nosed along the strong jaw to inhale this sensual man's unique scent with the underlying tone of an earthy cologne. When he finally kissed the inviting mouth he couldn't fathom why people, both male and female, weren't queuing to win the handsome, loyal Gregory Lestrade for themselves. It was the merest brush of lips and Mycroft let out a shaky breath when it ended.

"I was right. I did like it." Greg's voice was rough and then Mycroft pulled him close for a deep, possessive kiss. Their heads tilted and Mycroft's tongue curls around Gregory's. Trembling every so slightly Greg decided that no dream he had dreamt about Mycroft had even come close to reality.

Overwhelmed Mycroft ended the kiss but they remained wrapped in each others arms. Standing with his eyes closed, his nose buried in Gregory's lovely hair, Mycroft kept breathing in the man's sweet warm scent.

Greg brought Mycroft's hand to his lips, kissing first the wrist and then the palm. For a long moment he studied the elegant hand, with its slender fingers and pale skin so different from his own. He looked at Mycroft through his lashes. Lips slightly parted Mycroft watched in return as Greg kissed the palm of his hand again before placing it against his cheek. Their eyes met and Greg saw his own feelings reflected in the blue depth of Mycroft's eyes. Bringing up his other hand, Mycroft cradled the DI's face in his hands and pulled him closer.  
Their eyes slid shut as their lips met again, soft and warm. A second kiss immediately followed the first and then another, each kiss lasting a little longer than the one before. The forth time they kissed both their lips parted, their heads angled and Greg slotted against Mycroft like the piece of a puzzle. A perfect fit.  
The tip of his tongue touched Mycroft's tentatively but then they were holding on for dear life while they kept kissing as if their lives depended on it. This was no ordinary kiss but one that was like a potent drug, satisfying the need only for the moment while making them crave for more.

"I want you so much," Greg whispered, when the kiss ended.

"Then you shall have me," Mycroft replied before he kissed Gregory again and again and again.


End file.
